


A Man Grown

by coaldustcanary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, First Time, POV Female Character, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is only a boy, but she sees him become a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man Grown

He has killed men, she knows. He does not speak of it himself, as he does not boast like some men, but those in the Lord Commander’s retinue sometimes mention it, and she understands that he has won honors for his bravery. Serving as squire to the Lord Commander himself is a great honor itself, to be sure.

But he is still a boy.

He is tall, and strong, and well-made, handsome in the way that sers and lords may be – not fine of face, but healthy and hale. He has the beginnings of a beard scrubbing up his chin, and his dark brown hair is overlong and falls too easily into his eyes. He watches her at her washing with a knowing sort of look.

But he is still a boy, yet.

Bold and blooded, he is just nearly a man. And she is not surprised when he comes to her, a hint of boyish treble and a stammer in his voice when he says her name. He lays a hand, hard with sword callouses, across the back of hers, red and raw from the wash, and strokes her knuckles with his thumb. He whispers, and she smiles, her free hand fluttering up to cover her mouth, because he asks so sweetly, despite his fumbling. He _asks_.

He is still a boy, and for a moment, she feels once again like a girl.

There is color in his cheeks when he whispers again, leading her from the laundry through servants’ hallways to the lord’s quarters, assuring her that the Lord Commander has given his permission, and it would be well. But when he closes the heavy doors behind them, gilt decorations glowing in the candlelight, he hesitates. She takes his hand, squeezing it gently, and in return he lifts it to his lips, kissing the back as a knight might to his lady.

He is still a boy, and she is the one who leads them to the bed.

She has had green boys before, and she touches him – shoulders, ribs, and waist – fingers tracing muscles appreciatively, before she divests them both of their clothing, and she expects him, then, to find his eagerness and haste, as most boys do, at the sight of her nakedness. She pulls him atop her, expecting him to fumble but get right to plunging inside her, but he leaned over her, supporting himself on one strong arm, and kisses her throat with unexpected gentleness, tracing hard fingers shakily over the softness of the curve of her breast. His eyes search her face, and she is suddenly struck by the understanding that he wants to learn her, to please her, too. She turns her head so she can murmur into his ear without him seeing the ruin of her mouth, encouraging him, and guiding his hand with her own, offering encouragement with a sigh, and a lift of her hips to his tentative touch.

He is a boy, but he is fast learning to become a man.

In time – and less than she might have thought, far less – it is she who is pulling his hips hard against her own, taking him within her. The tenderness of the moment is nearly lost as he gasps and curses in shock, groaning, muscles rippling as he moved within her, tentatively but with slowly building purpose. She smiles, but smothers the laugh that threatens to escape out of her like a smattering of shiny soap bubbles – it would not do to laugh, no matter that it was all joy – by pulling his head to her breasts, running her fingers through his hair, holding him to her and crooning as he spends himself and collapses atop her. She wraps her arms around him and strokes his neck as he breathes warmly against her neck.

The young squire is no longer a boy.

He half-sleeps in her arms, his mouth slack and his eyelids fluttering, and she closes her own eyes for a moment, secure and safe, for now, beneath his warmth in the chill of the cavernous room. There have been others, before, for whom she was their first, but none so tenderly as this serious boy. She wraps her limbs around him and they doze together as she traces the lines of his back with her raw washerwoman’s fingers.

He wakes her with a kiss, this thoughtful boy, moving over and within her again, and she hides the ruin of her smile by whispering her praises into his pink-tinged ear.


End file.
